


Necessary Evils

by orphan_account



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, It's murder mystery time baby, Minor Violence, Multi, Murder, Murder Mystery, Partners in Crime, Whump, enjoy, my knowledge of the police is limited but i researched, or something like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: C.C. Tinsley isn’t a stupid man- far from it, in fact, but he’s a man with passions. Curiosities. Catching Ricky Goldsworth becomes one when the criminal begins dealing in vigilante justice and dead bodies start popping up all over town. When Goldsworth takes a similar interest in the detective pursuing him, things get interesting.Ricky Goldsworth is an elusive criminal and C.C. Tinsley is just intrigued enough to become his friend. Hijinks ensue. More to come! Rated M for swearing and a bit of gore, also it’s gonna get a bit spicy, whoops!
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth & C.C. Tinsley, Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 19
Kudos: 64
Collections: Buzzfeed Unsolved





	1. A Mood for Discernment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C.C. Tinsley is sent to examine murders popping up over town, when someone mysteriously pops into his life as well... 
> 
> This one’s pretty short, sorry! I hope you enjoyed this mess, even though my knowledge of the police is lacking. Feel free to leave comments, suggestions, questions, etc.! Any support is appreciated :)

It had not been a good day for C.C. Tinsley. He was sitting in his apartment, staring out the window into the bustling but lonely city, when he was called to the scene of the first murder. Tinsley thought it would be the same as he’d always seen- always grisly, always tragic, usually a crime of passion solved in a few weeks or a few days. It’s not beneficial to assume in his line of work, but it was well into the morning when he’d been phoned, and even his signature jacket failed to warm him in the brisk atmosphere of the crime scene- he was cranky.

“Not in the mood for discernment,” he would later be caught saying of that night. “You see,” he said, “I usually would’ve been more prepared.”

Regardless, however, of the hour or the weather, nothing he’d ever seen would have prepared him to see the body of Frank Bailey. 

What to say about Frank Bailey? The man had been suspected of involvement with a human trafficking ring, but substantial enough evidence couldn’t be found to get past his lawyer- the thought didn’t make C.C. sad to see him go. The way he went, however. That made even Tinsley grimace when he saw it, and he was no stranger to the more grotesque sides of humanity. 

Bailey, who Tinsley later pieced together had sold unwilling donor’s organs on the black market, was found with his hands tied behind his back, slumping with knees in the mud in the backyard of his estate. His own organs had been removed, and it wasn’t pretty. 

“Jesus. Somebody close his eyes, please,” was the first thing C.C. said. Bailey’s eyes had the cold and glassy look of death, the whites graying to a zombie-like shade. Blood had dried where it trickled from a cut on his forehead- it was clear his killer had not granted him a quick nor painless death. 

“Tinsley.” 

C.C. turned to see the grim face of his coworker, Holly. 

“Horsely,” he nodded, “Do we know how long he’s been dead?”

“Estimate of four hours, placing the murder around 11:00. Apparently his wife was restless, came downstairs to get a glass of water, and she- there was blood on the sliding glass door.”

“Poor woman.” Tinsley looked around and saw a woman wrapped in a faded green robe holding a handkerchief, though her eyes were just blank and shocked. 

“Yeah. Seems innocent enough, though, she’s already been questioned.”

“This seems almost vigilante. Who do you think it could be?”

Holly was silent, a grimace slashed across her face. He knew what she was going to say before she said it, and coming from a woman of her experience, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t scare him.

“Tinsley, I’ve got no fucking clue.”

The second body came with a note of sorts. It was a tall, thin man named Alister Brandley this time, and it didn’t take long for C.C. to realize that Brandley was also the name of a teenager who had been driven to suicide after news got out that he was gay and his father had threatened him. It was darkly fitting, then, that he had been hung from his rafters. The “note” was a copy of what Tinsley found out was the boy’s final letter, only it was scribbled over with a dark signature- RG. There were no fingerprints. 

It had been a week. 

“Who the hell is RG?” Tinsley groaned out, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing circles into his forehead with the heel of his palm. He’d been tasked to analyzing the note, but anything clever he thought he might have found just lead him in pointless circles. The only thing to go off was the initials. He’d asked around about the victim, too, but nobody seemed to know if he had any specific enemies. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Holly said, equally as exasperated, “I just wanna find the guy.”

“But doesn’t that feel like it’s what he wants? Why would he give us his initials nearly right off the bat, it doesn’t make any sense, he’s playing with us,” Tinsley sighed. This whole case felt like it was headed nowhere. But when your whole investigation is rock bottom, there’s only one way to go. Banjo McClintock, another officer who was on the case, barged into the room.

“I think I know who the initials belong to.”

“Who?” Tinsley said, standing up to face Banjo. Holly echoed his question.

“I swamped through files, past cases, fingerprints- there’s not much to go on,” he said nervously. 

“Banjo!” Holly cried.

“Spit it out, ‘Jo, who do you have?” Tinsley said, seconds away from ripping the paper out of Banjo’s hands to see for himself what the man had compiled. Banjo laid pieces of paper down as he listed the names, various headshots or case reports.

“Ryan Gaunt. R.J. Gross. Rita Glaslow.” 

C.C. scrutinized the photos as they were laid down, making a mental list of what he knew about each suspect. His brows furrowed when he saw that the last name Banjo listed was not accompanied by a photograph.

“And Ricky Goldsworth.” 

“Fuck.” 

Ricky Goldsworth was not a name unknown to Tinsley. The sly criminal was known to have a variety of nicknames and passions, the most notable being his history of theft- whoever this Goldsworth character was, he liked to have his hands on valuables. What incensed C.C. the most, though, was his the fact that nobody could pin down quite what he looked like. There were no photographs, and witness testimonies were just varied enough to confuse the hell out of everyone who heard them. 

“He was short, very short, and definitely stout. Brown hair. Or black hair. But maybe brown.”

“Medium height and thin, with scary eyes.”

“He was intimidating! He looked fierce. Pointy. An odd bird, I could tell you that much about the fella.”

“He seemed average- dark hair, pale. Average, until he spoke.”

“Oh he was tanned alright. With eyes that had malice. Wish I could tell you more, but the biggest thing was those eyes.”

Nobody seemed to be able to tell much, except that he was imposing- and from what Tinsley had heard, dangerously unpredictable. Goldsworth was known to have a flair for the dramatic that made his crimes all the more insufferable- theatrics were detestable when they lead to no conclusions. Tinsley was running all of this over in his head as he walked to his office to clean up for the night- everyone else had headed home- when he saw that the door was hanging open. 

He slowly reached for his gun as he crept towards the door. Caution never killed anyone, but when you were a fairly well-known detective, a lack of it could. He kicked the door gently open and found a man sitting in his chair. 

For a moment, he was too stunned to pull the trigger. All at once, like a rush of water into his lungs, he took in the view before him- a man whose face was hidden partially in shadow had his legs propped up casually on top of C.C.’s desk, on top of his case files. His eyes were what caught him, though, glinting eyes that held an almost dangerous shine. Something like a smirk was plastered on his angular features, and Tinsley knew almost right away who was sitting at his desk. He knew, but for some reason, he didn’t shoot. 

“Greetings there, Tin-man,” the man drawled. 

“Hello, Ricky.”


	2. Nicknames With Psychopaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C.C. and Ricky have a conversation, and C.C. can’t seem to get the criminal off his mind.
> 
> This one is super short, but it’s because chapter 3 is gonna be out really soon and it’ll be a juicy one. Maybe even a bit... tense, if you get my drift ;) Thank you for reading!

“Why don’t you put the gun down?”

C.C. almost laughed. Almost. 

“Why don’t you put your hands above your head?”

Ricky’s leisurely chuckle was raspy and free, exposing his teeth, and C.C. was reminded vaguely of a fox.

“Or what, Detective? Are you going to shoot me?”

C.C. faltered. No, he wasn’t. He could, he had- not killed, but shot- but this was different. Goldsworth was playing with him. He slowly dropped his arms.

“Why are you here, Goldsworth?”

Ricky’s smile was broad and only the tiniest bit wicked. He stretched his arms as he spoke, nestling them behind his shadowy face. Only the outline of his prominent features was visible. The mystery suited him. 

“Oh, I was in the neighborhood and I thought I might stop by.”

“We’re not friends, Goldsworth. You’re a wanted criminal, for fuck’s sake-”

Tinsley took a deep breath.

“What are you really doing in my office?”

“Of course we’re friends! We know a lot about each other, after all. Or I know a lot about you. Cecil Christopher Tinsley, the not-so-famous detective. Oh, you’re smart alright, you’re so clever. But you’re so lonely. Isn’t that right, C.C?” 

C.C. felt a chill run down his spine, and his grip tightened on his pistol. 

“You’re ignoring my question, Goldsworth.”

“And you’re ignoring my answer. Please, call me Ricky.”

“I don’t do nicknames with psychopaths.”

“And I don’t do meetings with bores. I’m not a psychopath, Tinseltown, you know better than that. I just have an unorthodox solution for problems that your people don’t know how to solve. And I like shiny things.”

C.C. would’ve chuckled, had he not had a vague unease rooted in his gut. 

“Did you kill those men, Goldsworth?”

“Ricky.”

“Did you?”

“Detective, those men killed themselves.” 

And C.C. could only watch as Ricky Goldsworth stood up from his desk and slipped out the window. His figure blended in with the shadows so that Tinsley could only see the faceless man’s silhouette when he said,

“I’ll be seeing you.”

C.C. got the sneaking suspicion that he was right.

“So who do you think it is?”

Horsely was sipping her coffee as her eyes flitted over the various pieces of “evidence” her, Banjo, and C.C. had compiled, and their leads were slim- so slim, in fact, that “leads” was less appropriate than “vague hints.” 

“To be honest, Horsely, I’m not sure. I’m thinking either Gaunt or Goldsworth at this point- it was obviously premeditated, professional- but it could’ve been Rita, she’s always been slippery,” Banjo replied, sighing. 

C.C. was tense, his spine rigid, his jaw clenched. This morning, Holly had made a jab about sleepless nights when she saw the prominent bags under his tired eyes. It had been four days since Goldsworth had made himself a guest in C.C.’s office, and Tinsley had been losing hours of the little sleep he allowed himself thinking about him. 

Making coffee, the image of his sharp smile burned in C.C.’s vision. Making his way to work, Ricky Goldsworth’s smooth voice had repeated itself in his ears. 

“Or what, Detective?”

“I’m not a psychopath, Tinseltown.”

“Those men killed themselves.”

And yet, C.C. still hadn’t told his coworkers he knew who it was. Curiosity, maybe, kept his mouth closed. Whatever it was, it was about to crack the detective. 

“It could be Rita- she’s known for being a bit creative,” Tinsley lied. Holly was about to comment when they got the call. 

Usually murders don’t happen in broad daylight- not planned ones, at least. Not the ones C.C. Tinsley has seen. But then again, there were many things about the murder of Clyve Bennett that C.C. had never seen. 

Clyve, himself fifty-right, had been accused of romancing a seventeen year old. Of course, he managed to avoid the charges. Perhaps he would have been better off in jail, because Tinsley was beginning to understand that Ricky Goldsworth was trying to play karma- and karma sure is a bitch. Clyve was found sitting in the bedroom in his expensive vacation home with his mouth taped shut. His body had a number of wounds, most evidently the bullet hole in his forehead. A smile was drawn on the tape wrapped around his mouth. Silenced like his girlfriend, C.C. supposed. Ricky was anything but uncreative. 

“That’s not pretty,” Banjo said, wincing as he photographed the scene. 

“No, it sure isn’t,” Tinsley agreed absentmindedly. He needed to talk to Goldsworth- if he could figure out how to find him.


	3. A Flair For The Dramatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C.C. realizes he’s in much deeper than he meant to be, and Ricky has an interesting meeting. 
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated! Enjoy :)

As it turns out, you don’t find Ricky Goldsworth. No, Ricky Goldsworth finds you. Luckily for one C.C. Tinsley, Ricky found him in his apartment later that night. 

C.C. was in his living room, if you could call it that, with his back on the floor and his legs on the seat of his couch. He closed his eyes, rubbing them with his hands in exasperation, and when he opened them a voice startled the lanky man. 

“Well if it isn’t old Tinkertoys!”

C.C. startled, banging his head on the coffee table. He winced and rubbed his head, and when his vision stopped swimming, he lifted his eyes to the silhouette of Goldsworth sitting cross-legged on his windowsill, backlit by the glow of the city. 

“Goldsworth, what are you doing in my-“

“Just saying hello to an old friend!“

“We aren’t- how do you know where I live?” 

Ricky laughed, less of a chuckle- a broad, clear laugh. It wasn’t cruel, but Tinsley found himself feeling a bit patronized. 

“I know everything, Tinman.”

Tinsley rolled his eyes. Ricky’s got a flair for the dramatic, he reminded himself. It became even more evident when Tinsley noticed the criminal was wearing a well-fitted pinstripe suit. He almost laughed. 

“Please, Goldsworth, spare me the theatrics, I’m not stupid. No man knows everything, you’re not God.”

“Do you believe in God, Tinsley?”

C.C. was taken aback, but found himself replying before he could realize not to. 

“I’m a man of science, Goldsworth. I believe in what I can see is real.”

“I wouldn’t expect something so reasonable coming from you,” Ricky grinned. Tinsley should’ve been offended, but he just rolled his eyes again. 

“I think I know more than you give me credit for.”

“I think you’re incredibly intelligent, Detective, you’re just predictable. It’s in your nature.” Tinsley paused to consider what Goldsworth meant. 

“You think I’m predictable because I won’t ignore the law?”

“That’s about right. Would you disagree?” 

“You’re too cocky, Goldsworth.”

“Of course I’m cocky, Detective. You would have to be to if you were me.”

Ricky must have seen Tinsley’s fleeting look of confusion, because he smiled his shark’s smile and said,

“You wouldn’t understand, of course, because you’re so- you’re a bluenose, Tinseltown. You follow the law so well you’re a part of it! Not me. No, people don’t understand that I’m helping.”

Ricky looked almost dangerous in that moment, his cool composure briefly interrupted by a flash of anger across his face, which C.C. could make out only because his eyes were adjusting to see the outlines of Ricky’s face in the shadow. 

C.C. understood in that moment the man’s unpredictability. Sunny one moment, stormclouds the next. Oddly, though, Ricky angry seemed more human than cocky-Ricky-plays-God. More like he had vulnerabilities, breaks in his seemingly perfect charade.

Ricky’s chest expanded with breath and he smiled again, but this one didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“People don’t understand, and so I have to. I have to be perfect for people to understand.”

“Is this your motive, then?” Tinsley said, but it lacked malice. “Why would you tell this to me?” C.C. asked after a moment of silence. Ricky’s eyes met his. 

“You’re not going to turn me in, Detective. I know because if you were, I’d already be breaking out of my cell,” he said with a crooked grin, “so this is- we’ll call it an explanation.” 

Tinsley carefully studied Ricky’s silhouette. 

“Is that why you’re here, Ricky?”

The name rolled off his tongue, dangerously smooth, and C.C. noticed the smirking smile curling onto Ricky’s lips. 

“No.” 

He paused. 

“I’m here because you intrigue me,” he said, and C.C. could feel his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Do you want to come inside?” 

C.C. rooted in his kitchen and came out with a bottle. 

“Really, Detective? I didn’t take you for the kind of man to drink-“

“Don’t get your tie in a twist, Goldsworth, it’s just champagne,” C.C. said with a slight amusement in his voice. Ricky’s face, now illuminated by the bulbs in Tinsley’s kitchen, was plastered with a teasing grin. 

His teeth were blinding, and Tinsley could see the old smile lines etched around his eyes almost as clearly as the bags of exhaustion beneath them. 

“Do you not have anything stronger? You’re so lawful. You’re just- you’re straight and narrow. That must be so boring. And exhausting.” Ricky took the glass C.C. handed him and waited as the taller man poured him a generous amount of bubbly. 

“Of course it would be, to you,” Tinsley muttered, lacking a witty response, but he found an amused smile on his face. 

“You ought to live a little, Tinman,” Ricky said. He took a generous sip of his drink and shot the detective a dangerous grin. 

“My name is C.C.,” Tinsley said, not knowing quite why, as the shorter man already knew that. He was still studying Ricky’s face, and the criminal raised his eyebrows. 

“You ought to let me show you around the city, then, C.C.” He put an emphasis on the detective’s name, drawing it out with a smirk. Tinsley felt his cheeks redden. 

“I know the city, Goldsworth. I’ve lived here my whole life.” Ricky snorted. 

“Not like I know it, Detective.” And C.C. hated to say it, but once again, Ricky was right. C.C. wondered absentmindedly if Ricky was ever wrong about anything, at least out loud. 

“Why?” The detective found himself asking. Ricky’s responding smile was infectious. 

“Why not?” And Tinsley knew why the smiling man across from him had killed those men. 

“You can’t kill people just because they’re bad men, Ricky.” 

The criminal lowered his glass slowly. When he’d encouraged Tinsley to stop being predictable, this isn’t what he’d meant. 

“The evening was going so nicely, Tinman-“ 

“There’s a reason vigilante justice is illegal. You can give tips to the police, but you can’t just go around murdering-“ 

“And what, C.C.? Let those men hurt more, kidnap more, bully more?” Ricky had stood suddenly and he grabbed handfuls of C.C.’s button up. 

The top two buttons were loose, and his tie was haphazard, though Ricky hadn’t noticed until now. Tinsley looked down and said, in a measured voice, 

“I can’t justify murder. I- I’ll turn you in.” 

“Fuck you, Tinsley. You won’t.” 

‘You don’t know,’ Tinsley wanted to say. But Ricky pressed himself closer to C.C., and for a moment, the taller man was lost in the criminal’s dark blazing eyes. 

He could kill you, he thought to himself. Or much better, chimed his subconscious. He cursed himself for blushing and looked away. 

Ricky took a deep breath and pushed the detective, almost gently. He turned and ran his hands anxiously through his hair, making it ruffled, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. 

Tinsley saw the shorter man look down at his watch and heard him curse under his breath. 

“Sorry, Detective, I’ll have to put a rain check on the champagne.”

And for the second time, C.C. watched the enigma he knew as Ricky Goldsworth disappear out of his window. 

Night-Night Bergara was not a patient man. His associate, Legs Madej, was not a merciful one. Ricky was not stupid, and therefor would not be late to the meeting. 

He approached the shipyard silently, fixing his stray strands of hair and adjusting the folds in his suit jacket. 

“We’ve been expectin’ ya,” said Night Night. Not exactly subtle, you moron, Ricky thought, but of course he kept his mouth in a tight smile. 

“Legs here was gettin’ impatient. Weren’t cha, Legs?” Ricky watched alertly as the taller man stepped out from the shadows behind Night Night and Ricky saw the crowbar he was gripping. It was all rather melodramatic, but then again, Ricky wasn’t one to judge. 

“You said on the phone you wanted to talk?” Ricky didn’t mention how Night Night had also said that if he didn’t show up, Legs would find him and “cut off his hands.” Ricky could take Night Night, and probably Legs if he had a gun on him (he did), but combined and with their friends, he thought it best to see what they wanted. 

“We know you’re good at what you do, Goldsworth. And you’re clever, too. But we got dirt.” 

“Dirt?” 

“Lucy Gold. That’s your ma, right?” 

Ricky stopped cold. Fuck. Night Night continued with an evil smile. 

“You’re sneaky and you’re good at heists. We want you to use your, ah, talents to get us some dough.” 

“You’re asking me to do a heist?” 

“There’s an antiques museum downtown, Goldsworth. High security, yknow. We want you to get us a little somethin’. Just a present. We know you can, we’ll send you a letter with the details.”

“And if I don’t do it?”

Night Night grinned, and Ricky’s smile vanished. 

“Legs, show ‘im what you can do to Miss Lucy if he don’t go through with it.” Legs nodded, and grinned cruelly, hefting the crowbar. Before Ricky could reach for his gun, Legs was swinging. 

“Night night!” the shorter goon said, and Ricky heard something crack before everything fell into darkness.


	4. Forms of Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C.C. Tinsley: disaster bisexual. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are ridiculously appreciated. Thank you guys so much for reading, enjoy this heartwarming wreck of a chapter.

C.C. was sitting at his desk with his long legs propped upon its polished top, his feet disturbing a stack of folders. He took long sips of his coffee as he contemplated. On a morning like this, he needed as much caffeine as he could get his hands on. 

Tinsley hadn’t been able to get Goldsworth off of his mind after the overdramatic criminal had broken into his apartment the previous evening. He didn’t know why he was so fixed on Goldsworth, but he was sure it wasn’t going to end pretty. Tinsley was used to trouble, of course, but trouble had knocked on C.C.'s door and he had offered it a comfy chair and a glass of champagne.

C.C. looked at the stack of papers on his desk and was reminded that he should be working. He took a deep breath and tried not to picture Ricky’s sharp features. His smile, which made Tinsley feel like he was going to be eaten alive. The criminal’s body pressed against Tinsley’s, shortening his breath and setting his nerves on fire. And Ricky leaving- slipping out of his window. Why had C.C. let him go? 

The detective was shocked to find himself so upset about Ricky Goldsworth’s disappearance. He’s a fucking wanted criminal, he reminded himself, and you’re supposed to be investigating him as a suspect! 

Tinsley stood abruptly from his chair and buried his hands in his face. 

“I need some fresh air,” he called out into the office as he strode out the door. Banjo looked vaguely startled and Holly smiled sympathetically at him, but he allowed neither of them time to respond before walking at a brisk pace down the street. 

It was cold and slightly rainy, and the chill combined with the drops of water hitting Tinsley’s face did a fair amount to distract him from Goldsworth’s image burning in his head. 

Before long, C.C. found himself on 11th street. The rain had worsened. C.C. fixed his hair, took a moment to regain clarity, and decided to go into Sara’s. 

Sara’s was a bakery he was rather fond of, they made excellent bagels and he had long ago befriended the cheery owner. Sara herself was setting up the display case when he walked in. 

She looked him up and down, and looked a bit confused. He realized he must be quite the figure to see at 3 in the afternoon, drenched in rain and looking lost on her doorstep. 

“Did you chase a thief into a puddle or something, Detective?” Sara asked with a chuckle, then, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” 

C.C. shrugged. He was suddenly struck by cold, and his wet coat felt heavy. Reality was catching up to Tinsley, and it no longer seemed like a good idea to get some fresh air in the middle of a rainstorm. 

Sara’s face darkened with concern. She set down her tray of pastries and walked over, ignoring Tinsley’s weak protests and removing his soaking trenchcoat. She beckoned for him to follow her to the back room, where she hung up his coat. 

“What’s the matter, Cecil?” She asked gently as she pushed him into a chair. He went gladly, his tired legs folding on their own. 

Tinsley sighed deeply. He knew he couldn’t tell her, but he wished he could. 

“I know that look, Cece. Girl trouble?” She chuckled. C.C. couldn’t help but smile. But what would she say if she knew it wasn’t a girl? 

Tinsley had been with a few women before in his life, gentle sweet things with kind smiles. They were all clever and admired C.C.’s work. Girls, as far as Tinsley knew, were soft and delicate. He liked the way they moved, graceful and dainty like paper birds.

Ricky was nothing like that. He made Tinsley’s heart pound in his chest, made him shiver. But of course, C.C. didn’t want Ricky. That would be stupid. No, he was just thrilled with the mystery of him. He couldn’t want someone like that. Especially not a boy- a man. 

“Work troubles,” he decided on. Sara raised her eyebrows in slight disbelief, but she didn’t press him. C.C. was grateful. He raised his head to look her in the eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Sara, what if I told you- about the problems- what if they weren’t always about girls?”

Sara’s smile was unwavering, but her eyes looked confused. Tinsley, hands shaking, pressed on.

“I mean, what if they were boy problems, too?”

He could feel his heart racing. Sara knelt to his chair’s level and gently took C.C.’s hands into her own. 

“You mean you’re bi, Cecil?”

C.C. flushed. He nodded gently. Sara stood up and pulled him into a tight hug. He melted into the friendly comfort of her arms.

“Me too,” she whispered. Tinsley laughed then, blinking to clear the tears threatening to spill from his watery eyes. She laughed too, and the pair spent a moment regaining composure. C.C. couldn’t stop grinning. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Sara said. Tinsley gave her a grateful look, and he hoped she knew what he meant. She nodded slightly. 

Tinsley glanced mindlessly at the clock on the wall. 

“Goddammit! Sara, I’m so sorry, but I really need to get back to the office,” he rushed apologetically, hurrying to grab his damp trenchcoat. 

“It’s okay, Cece! Thanks for stopping by, but next time do it within your free hours!” She said. He nodded with a grin.

“Oh, by the way,” she called when he was nearly out the door, “I’ve heard word of a party next weekend. I’ll get you the details, but you’re going!” 

C.C. nodded and mock-soluted Sara. She laughed, and he felt better as he rushed out of the bakery. 

C.C. had made it back to work and, after several profuse apologies to Banjo and Holly, finished his work day without incident. 

He worked his way home without any mishaps as well, collapsing into his couch the minute he had shucked off his beloved trench coat. He realized he hadn’t been thinking of Ricky since before he saw Sara, and smiled gently to himself. He owed that girl a lot. 

C.C. was just getting comfortable with a book on the couch when he heard a sharp knock at the door. He looked at his clock. It was 11:45, far too late for visitors. 

He ignored the knocking until it happened again. C.C. sighed, set his book down on his coffee table, and wandered to the door. 

Through his peephole he could see the familiar figure of a man doubled over himself in the dark. 

C.C. opened the door cautiously, and Ricky Goldsworth collapsed onto his doormat. 

C.C. drew in a tight breath when he saw blood matted in the criminal’s hair and smeared across his forehead. He squatted and, with a bit of difficulty, scooped the smaller man into his lanky arms. He kicked the door shut and, grunting, carried Ricky into his kitchen. 

He set the fugitive down on his counter with his back against a cabinet, and hurriedly began to unbutton Ricky’s blood-soaked dress shirt. 

“Woah there, uhh, Tinman- take- take a guy on a date first,” he slurred, shifting so he could hold himself up with one hand. Ricky’s dark eyes were swimming with fear and pain. His other hand, Tinsley saw, was limp at his side. 

The detective just huffed, finishing the buttons on Ricky’s shirt. He began to gently slide it off his shoulders. 

“Ricky, c’mon, work with me here. Arms off the counter please, thank you.” 

His voice was steady, but the detective’s mind was racing. Ricky’s muscular torso was covered in dark splotchy bruises and scrapes. 

“Stay there, Goldsworth, I’ll be back in a moment.” 

C.C. rushed to his bathroom to gather bandages and other supplies. He didn’t allow himself to think, just move. His body was operating on Ricky-Goldsworth-Is-In-Danger Mode, something he didn’t know it could do, but it was working. He efficiently gathered materials and rushed back to the kitchen, brain on autopilot. 

“Mmph- Tinker-tinseltown- C.C., you look concerned,” Ricky said as C.C. began to dab at his arm, where a large bruising gash was bleeding. Tinsley wanted to shout. Of course he was concerned, Ricky was bleeding out in front of him! 

“Just hold this cloth here, please,” he instructed tersely. Ricky dropped his head back against the cabinet and did what he was told, wincing slightly. 

Tinsley rushed to get some hot water on a cloth to apply to the criminal’s scrapes. He worked around Ricky’s arm to clean up the blood on his torso, putting bandages where he could and ointment everywhere else. 

Ricky tried to keep still, his jaw clenched. 

Tinsley moved onto Ricky’s arm, removing Ricky’s hand tenderly. Ricky’s face heated as the detective set his arm softly down. His nimble fingers were soft against Ricky’s skin. 

The detective wrapped a bandage tightly- but not too tightly- around Ricky’s bicep. The smaller man winced, his toes curling and the fingers in his other arm clenching into a fist. When C.C. was satisfied, he gently dabbed the blood off of Ricky’s head.

The detective was almost disturbed by the gash in his head, but it was shallow and had stopped bleeding. He did the best he could to clean it, then stepped away to give Ricky a once-over. 

“What happened?” He finally asked. Ricky sighed and gave him a sarcastic smile.

“I got in a fight with a landshark.”

“No really, Ricky, who did this to you?” 

Ricky was surprised to find genuine concern in the detective’s measured words.

“A landshark with a crowbar.”  
“Someone hit you with a goddamn crowbar?” C.C. cried, throwing his hands in the air before they landed on his hips. Ricky giggled a bit.

“Just some- some- some associates of mine,” he murmured. His vision was getting dizzy, and he was struck by the sight of two C.C.’s rushing towards him.

“S’alright, detective, ‘m just gonna take a little nap,” he muttered. Tinsley took the criminal’s face in one of his stupidly big hands.

“No, Ricky, c’mon, stay awake for me until I can get you into bed.” 

Ricky’s eyes shot open at the detective’s touch. He felt his heart begin to race. He’s touching your face, Ricky’s brain pointed out, rather obviously. 

“Like I said, de-detective, why dontcha take- take me out first,” he slurred, chuckling to himself through his haze of pain and panic. 

C.C.’s anxious features anchored him in the present. Before Ricky could say something, the detective had lifted Ricky again, now shirtless, and was carrying him to what Ricky assumed was his bedroom.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ricky. You need a good night of rest in a proper bed. I’m going to be on the couch in the living room if you need anything.” 

Ricky felt his stomach drop. 

“No, I can- I’ll take the couch, Detective, s’fine really-” 

“Ricky.” C.C.’s voice was firm. “Bed.” 

The criminal pouted, though it hurt because his lip was busted. 

“Please, C.C., I don’t-” his eyes looked so sad in that moment that C.C. felt his heart ache for the criminal. Ricky was uncharacteristically truthful in this moment.

“I don’t want to be alone.” 

Tinsley’s heart lurched, and he knew the argument was over. He set Ricky down, gentle and soft, on his bed. He helped the criminal take off his shoes. 

“Do you want some, erm, do you want to borrow some sleeping clothes?” 

Ricky nodded sleepily, and C.C. helped him out of his pants and into a pair of pajama pants, blushing madly and avoiding eye contact with Ricky or anywhere above his knees. Even now, Ricky found it hilarious, and made a point to look deep in the detective’s eyes as he stood. Tinsley slipped out into the hallway to change into his pajamas, and Ricky complained.

“What, no show for me?” He teased through the doorway. C.C. felt his heart pound but he ignored Ricky and re-entered in his pajamas a few minutes later. 

Ricky slipped under the covers at the same time Tinsley did, wincing, and Tinsley wanted to help him, touch him, hold him- No. Bad detective, he chided himself silently.

As Ricky laid his head down on the pillows, he had a moment of pause. What was he doing? As a principle, Ricky actively tried to avoid all forms of weakness. Why was he in someone’s bed, then, turning his back to them? Wearing their pajamas? 

Ricky squeezed his eyes shut. No. Tinsley- god help him, he didn’t do trust, but he trusted the detective. And he was cold. 

Ricky scooted so that he was pressed against the detective’s front. 

C.C. felt his heart try and leap out of his chest. Relax, Cecil, he told himself. He’s probably just moving around in his sleep. He’s not going to murder you. Hug him! C.C. sighed to himself. He really needed to get a grip on his subconscious. 

Ricky looked so small in that instant, broken and bruised and lonely. Tinsley took a deep breath and gently wrapped his arm around the smaller man, closing his eyes. 

Ricky felt himself dozing off, but he could almost imagine Tinsley pressing his lips against the back of his head. He almost let himself like the idea. Ricky would have dwelled on it all, but exhaustion was firmly pulling on his eyelids. Against his better judgement, he relaxed into the detective’s touch and allowed himself to be carried into sleep.


End file.
